


Slip Free of My Grasp

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Cross-Generation Relationship, M/M, Public Sex, Rimming, sex while sore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't want to be bad for him.  I want to do bad things and still be, somehow, inexplicably, <i>good</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slip Free of My Grasp

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firethesound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firethesound/gifts).



"I need new jeans," Harry tells me. "Will you come with me to pick them out?"

I should say no. This fact is obvious to me. The issue of us having fucked three weeks ago on his nineteenth birthday still hangs in the air around everything we say and everything we don't. I should have talked to him about it right after it happened. I should have apologised for obliterating a boundary I knew better than to cross. I should have taken him by the shoulders, or better yet stood across a very large room, and set him straight. (Although Harry was very clear with me when he told me he and the youngest Weasley broke up that 'straight' is not something he can be set to.)

Still, I should have said, "I was a little drunk, and you're nineteen and bloody hard all the time, and it won't happen again and that's that."

But I didn't.

I should not have told him, my voice liquor-slow, that his arse tastes like honey.

But I'm afraid I did.

I can hold my Firewhiskey decently, even when I've had a bit too much. But I can't hold back around Harry.

Or, well, I couldn't. I've been fucking trying ever since, of course.

But now we've got...this.

"Sirius?" He's leaned in my study doorway.

"What?" It comes out harsher than I'd intended.

"Who pissed in your tea?" he asks, pushing into the room and coming way too close. "Do you want to come with me or not? There's the party at the Burrow tonight, you know."

I'm not sure what these things have to do with one another. It hardly matters. I agree just to get rid of him. Except not really, because he's Harry, and I adore him. "Ah yes, the party. Well, when do you want to leave then?"

Harry looks at his watch – the watch I gave him for his birthday before I...well, before I buggered him – and then looks at me. "Ten minutes?"

 

 

 

In fifteen we're in Diagon at the new Muggle-inspired clothing shop, and I've got my arms full of jeans he's handed me.

I knew this wasn't a good idea. I should have said I'd meet him at the Burrow. He's going to model these for me, I can feel it. He's going to come out of that dressing room and spin around and show me his cute arse, teasing me mercilessly, and I'm going to have to go to the Weasleys' hard as hell, and is there anything worse than trying to hide an erection from those offensively cheery people?

I don't have it exactly right, though. Harry disappears into the changing room, and I don't see him for twenty minutes. He doesn't come out, doesn't show me his hot body in too-tight clothes, nothing.

I'm beginning to get bored, to be honest. I'm a clothes horse, but I'm also old, and these new fashions Harry's generation are coming up with defy my sense of personal style. Jeans ought to be rugged, not "skinny". I don't understand "hoodies", although if I'm pressed, I'll admit I do like seeing Harry in them. I definitely don't understand these prices. I'm considering yelling over the door that I'm going to head to the Leaky for a pint when he calls out to me instead.

"Sirius? Could you come in here?"

I swallow. "Can't you come out?" This seems reasonable. I'm trying to be reasonable with him when I've rarely accomplished such a feat in my life, I'll have you know.

"The light's better in here. Come tell me what you think," he says.

I sigh, gather myself, and jerk the door open. But what I see makes me step inside quickly and shut it again. I do that for his modesty but then quickly realise my mistake.

My bloody huge mistake.

Because now I'm alone with a Harry Potter who's wearing no shirt and whose new jeans are unbuttoned at the fly, open and barely hanging on to his hips, his dark, thick pubic hair peeking through the lax V, because of course he's wearing no pants.

Of course.

My mouth fills with saliva.

He's leaned back against the full-length mirror behind him, and his young cock is already pushing, swollen and hungry, at the pre-distressed fabric. It will reach up toward his belly soon, clearing the denim completely.

I'm so bloody fucked.

For a split second, I imagine telling him no. I imagine becoming angry and asserting my godfatherness and turning around and stalking out and not finishing my stalking until I'm firmly planted on a barstool someplace on Knockturn, fully intending to get as pissed as possible.

This course of action takes about two seconds to burn away under his pleading gaze.

Then he says my name, half-whispering it, and I'm all bloody over him.

My arms are around him, and I'm clawing his naked back, licking a broad path up his neck, which he lifts his chin to expose to me. I'm yanking his jeans down just to the tops of his thighs, spinning him around, and then pressing him to the mirror.

" _Yes_ ," he hisses when I sink to my knees, open his plump arsecheeks, and then bury my face there.

Bloody fantastic, this forbidden honey. I lick him rough, not like the first time when I took care of him, when I was the height of tenderness with him. No, none of that. I hold him open with my thumbs and lick him like the dog I am. I lick him until his tight little hole relaxes for me, until he's making a mewling sound in the back of his throat and then presses his mouth against his arm to muffle it.

"Are you gentlemen doing all right in there?" the sales clerk – probably just twenty herself – asks through the thin door.

I lift my mouth to tell her, "It's a hard decision, jeans." Then I push my tongue right up his clenching arse.

"Well, just let me know if you need a different size," she answers.

"Fits perfect," Harry manages, and I'm sorry, but I chuckle in between my licking and sucking at him.

I suppose I'm crap as a godfather. Everybody knew that already.

As a rimmer, though, I'm bloody excellent.

Harry is quivering and trying not to whine, and he's arching his back for me as I eat him out, and I'm so high on it, I almost don't want to fuck him. But there's this lead pipe of a cock between my legs that's demanding to take the place of my mouth, so I kiss his loosened bud of a honeyed hole goodbye, sparing a goodbye kiss for my eternal soul as well, and then stand, opening my fly as quickly as I can.

"Can you be quiet?" I ask him under my breath, close behind.

"Yes, Sirius," he breathes. I'm looking at his transformed face in the mirror. His pupils are blown, his cheeks pink and lovely, his hair a mess, but what else is new? All my new-found upstanding morals slip free of my grasp as I take my cock in hand instead, pushing it barely into him, and watch his lips gasp apart.

I have sense enough to pull my wand and conjure some lube, slicking myself and running my finger around his hole where it's stretched around me already to distribute it. He bangs his forehead into the mirror.

"Shhh," I admonish gently, sliding deeper, deeper, and then deeper still. Harry starts to pant quietly. I look down between us to see how open he is, even as it's tight and I'm throbbing inside him.

"You make me _want_ to go to hell," I groan behind his ear, beginning to thrust. I wrap my arms around him. His strong heart beats hard against the palm of my hand. I take the soft lobe of his ear between my teeth and watch what it does to his face when I fuck him.

Angel, warrior, charge, saviour.

"Good?" I ask. Because I so want it to be good for him. I don't want to be bad for him. I want to do bad things and still be, somehow, inexplicably, _good_.

He nods. His eyes open in a drugged way and find me. He wraps a hand behind my head, holding me there. His other hand is bracing, leaving smudges of his prints on the glass, so I drop my hand to fondle his cock.

Harry leans his head back, his mouth coming open as I pound into his arse yet barely caress his straining erection. His body arches against mine, his hand tightening in my hair. He whispers my name again.

His heart drums out the syllables of his own name to me, or at least it feels that way: my godson, asserting himself to me, over and over again. _Har-ry, Har-ry, Har-ry, Har-ry..._ He's so bloody strong. I close my own eyes and let go into him. I come, and he accepts me. I hold my breath as it tightens my legs until they're shaking, and Harry whimpers quietly as I fill him. His own cock jerks in my hand and fills my palm with warm semen. Some of it gets on the mirror and the carpet, and I really don't give a fuck. He's shuddering in my arms, and my life is perfection just now.

"Um gentlemen, we're closing in ten minutes," comes a tentative voice from just on the other side of the door.

I can't help it; the sigh that comes out of me finishes on a rather guttural groan. I watch Harry smile brilliantly at me in the mirror, his hand loosening to stroke my hair now.

"We'll just be another moment," he says with nearly no trace of his former throes in his voice. The scrappy sod. Meanwhile, I sound like a wooly beast labouring up a hill.

I pull out slowly and then spank his arse. "Bloody hell," I say, pulling my wand again and cleaning up the mess. "Get dressed," I add when he stands there looking cheeky (no pun intended) with his jeans around his thighs like he'll wear them out that way.

He buys three different shades of the jeans I fucked him in, paying the blushing shop girl and being exceedingly pleasant to her while I try on sunglasses.

He comes up behind me, pressing close. "Ready?" he asks.

"Back off," I tell him. "This isn't happening again."

He chuckles. "We'll see." Then he's heading out of the shop with his bag slung over his shoulder jauntily.

I take a deep breath, put the sunglasses back on the display case, give a curt nod to the clerk, and then follow him out.

 

 

The Weasleys are in peak form, and I've not often had a meal in my life that could compare with Molly's Lancashire hotpot. Charlie's treacle tart, too, is something close to divinity. It's a rare magic that can train dragons _and_ craft sweets, let me tell you.

And Harry, obviously, loves it. He loves it, and he loves them, and they love him.

I love him.

And all I can think about is his arse taking my cock. Twice now. And oh can he take a cock...

Listen to me, I'm a bloody brute! I'm impossible! I very nearly can't stand myself. What happens when your saving grace is also the person you want in your bed? How does one reconcile that? How do I revere his innocence and want to shag him over every piece of furniture I see at the same time?

How does my one chance at redemption also become my guaranteed straight shot to Hell?

See, this is what too much treacle tart and not enough conscience does to me. Add Firewhiskey and that's bloody it.

So I'm not going to. I'm staying stone-cold sober tonight. I'll be drunk on the sound of Fleur Delacour's laugh and get high on the soft breeze bringing in the night as George and Ginny take on Ron and Harry in a Snitchless Quidditch scrimmage. (Say that five times fast.) I'll just relax into my garden chair and watch the stars blink on while Bill tells stories of Egypt and Arthur sorts through a big box of plugs to show us, apparently, just the right one.

But my eye gets drawn to him. How can it not? His arse on that bloody broom is pornography. And he's good, of course. He's brilliant on that thing. I can tell he's holding back to even out the game. I feel so proud of him, so humbled by his willingness to prize his friendships over his prowess. And fuck if he doesn't turn me on.

I bite my tongue as though that can stop my vile thoughts.

"Think I'll help out in the kitchen," I sigh, standing and stretching, even though Arthur insisted he'd get to the dishes before bed and that they could wait. I need the space. I need the time. I need the reality of dish soap. In fact, I think I'll wash dishes the Muggle way as a form of mindfulness training on myself.

Yes, I will scrub pots like a monk, and I'll find inner peace. This is my decision.

I drag myself into the dark kitchen and cast a _Lumos_ over the sink, enjoying the density of the silence broken only be a whoop or a holler here and there. I lather up a brush and set to it.

I've been working probably five minutes when his voice floats to me from the doorway. "Are you punishing yourself?"

Blast.

"What? No." I scrub harder.

I hear his slow footfalls as he comes into the room.

"Why aren't you outside with your friends?" I ask him.

"Because I'd rather be inside with you," he informs me.

"If you're going to be in here, Harry, I'm going to put you to work," I threaten.

"Suits me."

I look over my shoulder at his tender smile. I don't let it undo me. I just throw him his own scrub brush, and he joins me at the sink. "I'll wash, Sirius. You rinse."

"Why?"

"Because you're cocking it all up, that's why."

"Well..." I snort. But I budge up to let him in next to me, and we do dishes together for a good while in companionable silence.

That's what I love most, I think, about his having decided to live with me. Even the quietude feels full now. Even when I'm alone in a room, I know he's upstairs or down the hall or in the bath, and it's bearable. It's more than bearable. I've actually found myself content with my life. I'm content now.

But then his hand brushes mine as he hands me a dish. His fingers are wet and soapy. "You're going to muddy my clean water," I tell him.

He bumps into me and gives me a mischievous smile.

I splash a little of my water at him.

He laughs and shoves me.

So I grab him and kiss him.

Shit.

I grab him hard. I pull him flush against my body. And I kiss him so deep, I ache.

His scrub brush clatters to the floor, and he groans into my mouth, his arms wrapping around my neck. I don't know what I'm doing. I shove my hand down the back of his jeans, find his hole, and stroke it. He gasps out of the kiss. "Sirius..."

I penetrate him only to my first knuckle. "Are you sore?"

He nods.

I sink in to the second knuckle and feel him stiffen, and then, just as swiftly, melt against me.

"Do you want me to stop?" _Bloody goddamned FUCK, tell me to STOP, Harry!_

He doesn't answer me with words. He drops his hands to his fly and opens it. He shoves the jeans down just enough and turns and lays himself out over the kitchen table.

He bloody well can't be serious.

"Do it," he orders me.

I peer into the living room to make sure no-one's come back inside yet. There's a gigantic laugh from the garden. I swallow and can't believe I'm about to do this. I unfasten my fly and lube up my cock. His pert arse waits for me on display, the dark ring of hair around his pink hole tempting me there.

"Hurry," he says, gripping the table's edge and widening his legs.

"I'll hurt you."

"Then hurt me, Sirius," he almost growls.

I line up, unthinking, a hand on his lower back. I push inside. "Fuck..." It's a long, drawn out exhale as I watch my cock sink into him up to my bollocks.

Harry whimpers in such a lovely way, I want to cry. I take a slow slide almost all the way out, watching it still.

"Oh my God," he cries.

I shove back in, and he accepts me utterly. He presses his forehead to the table, lifts up on his toes, and I mount him, I take him, I handle his hips with neither grace nor nuance. I hold him there for it, and I fuck him from behind, fast and steady.

My breath seethes through the room. There is a shock of laughter from outdoors once again. It makes adrenaline rush through my body unchecked. I put up no spells, no barriers, no Disillusionment charms, nothing. I'm fucking Harry in the Weasleys' kitchen, and it feels so good I could die from it.

I'm going so hurriedly, I lose my rhythm a few times. I walk in up against him and start in again. He whines, bending his knees and tilting his arse up so beautifully, like a supplicant, only it's me who worships him. I'm going to come. I'm going to do it so hard. "Christ, Harry," I pant, and then I'm openly groaning as I fill him up, as I thrust through it, as he makes these sweet, shivering sounds that touch my soul with their vulnerability.

I run my hands up his back and then down. I wish I could stay like this, stroke him off, or drop to my knees and suck his cock. I'm considering it when I hear the backdoor open, and I pull out of him so fast it hurts us both. We zip up quickly, tucking away and smoothing our clothes. I turn to the sink and hurriedly wand the dishes to washing themselves.

"Oh, Sirius, you didn't have to do that," Molly chides with a smile.

"It's no trouble," I tell her. I glance at Harry to find him pouring himself a pumpkin juice. His hands are trembling slightly.

"Harry, dear, are you all right? You look feverish. You didn't drink the rum, did you? George always makes it too strong. I always tell him, George, you ought not--"

"No," Harry interrupts kindly. "No, I didn't have any. I do feel a bit over-warm, though. Maybe I should get home."

"Oh my, well of course," she fusses, and while she's getting together some of the leftovers for him and mumbling to herself about fetching him an elixir from her potions cabinet, Harry looks at me from under his lashes, gives me a tiny smile, and my heart bloody melts.

Or explodes.

Something happens to it, at any rate.

I just know I'm never going to recover, that's all.

We say our goodnights to the brood. I can't explain, probably, how very good it feels to be saying goodnight to people who have become my family but to know I get to take one of them home. My favourite one.

We walk out into the night as Harry says he prefers not to Floo from the Burrow if he can help it. He explains that he had a dodgy experience with it once. So we walk out into the dark field in preparation to Apparate. Suddenly, he takes my hand in his.

I look at him, and he looks at me. "It's destiny, you know," he says.

"What, my cock up your arse?"

He smiles. "Well, that's part of it."

"And the rest?"

He stops and turns to me. He takes my rough face in his gentle palms. So many times he's saved me....

"Let go, Sirius," he says.

"Easier said than done. You're not the pervert here."

He gives me a look at clearly says he thinks I'm being too daft to actually bother answering.

He leans our foreheads together, though. I think I can hear my own heart beating in the soft night. Before I can say anything more, object or qualify or deny myself this wonder, I feel his magic, strong and unerring.

Harry takes us home.

~end


End file.
